


thanatophobia

by sunabolitionist



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24897775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunabolitionist/pseuds/sunabolitionist
Summary: Patroclus' father goes mad and sends his kingdom into a spiral of destruction, not before receiving a message from a goddess, marking his child. He sends off his son just before the palace is raided and he and his wife are presumably killed. Patroclus travels to Phthia and is cordoned off as a cursed child for many years before Achilles enters. Quick love and quicker joy-- what end does it meet?
Relationships: Achilles & Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	1. Achilles, dear to Zeus, you order me

**Author's Note:**

> AH i have been meaning to post this for the Longest time. I only have one more chapter. Prepared. but i will probably end up writing more of this when i am less brainwormed by my original project based on the Euripides play Iphigenia at Aulis (which if you want to talk to me about message me on twitter @sunabolitionist) 
> 
> I made a playlist for SOA but I, sadly, will not share it simply because there is a wealth of SOA playlists.

**_“Achilles, dear to Zeus you order me…”_ **

No matter how close to my heart this wish is, I was not bursting with youth when I arrived at Phthia. Instead, my face sank into my breast, my eyes cursed to cast down, the cloud over my head not befitting a child so young. I was five and a half. The consequence of war, my mother gone, my father gone, the city I lived in turned to ash. Soon it would be rebuilt, I realized. Soon it would be someone else’s kingdom. That was the nature of war, was it not? For one thing to be trampled and another to be erected in its place without the names of the fathers of men being remembered, without the dust of the ground being known to anyone but the dead… I imagined that this is what would happen to me. I was not favored by the gods. I was not favored by anyone. From my country, I walked beside Eumeleus, his head sunken. He knew he held the hand of a mere boy whose father forsook him. A father who took his own wife and let her be slaughtered. The rumors of those last moments were of their copulation, their final moment spent grappling each other. The moment I learned this, I was wracked with shame. My blood boiled. My father was a ghost of a man to me. 

I do not remember much of anything from the city. My memory was largely limited to those moments after the rise from those ashes. Eumeleus walked with my body slung on his back at times when my young feet got tired, he walked with his large hands wrapped around mine when my hands became cold at night. But we could not stop, we knew this much. We could not make the fatal choice to slow down. The bandits waited along the way and we were fleeing the palace. Had anyone known this, it would have spelled a quick death. I wondered, as a child wonders, when I would see my father again. 

He was a foolish man, a drunkard in his late years. I do not know what caused it, but he often mused about the danger of a specific goddess, her name was clear in my mind always; Strife. He swore by her name. He thought of her as a danger and also a necessary defender. But I did not understand. Perhaps it was his madness. Because eventually, I was drawn to realize that Menoitius did not know anything of the gods, he never walked through the temples, he never looked to their shrines, never made offerings. It was a newfound faith. I did not understand this, but at some point I had no choice but to understand. 

Eumeleus kept his hand steady on mine as the sun rose. We were both exhausted, riding on the back of a decrepit mule, waiting for the horizon to show Phthia. And soon enough, it did. 

“I am sorry, Patroclus,” Eumeleus murmured to me. “I was hopeful that we would move faster. I am sorry for exhausting you.” 

I looked at him dumbfounded and gently rested my head upon his back, feeling the labor of his breath as we moved forward. I imagined the comfort of a cot. I imagined the soft blankets I had so missed. I imagined and imagined, my bones beholden to the wants of a child, my mind beholden to the wants of a child. It was a terrible fear and a terrible joy to be aware that I was soon to be someone else entirely. Menoitiades. Son of Menoitius. There was no hope in that name. No hope in being his son. I vaguely recalled his shame when I could not be Helen’s suitor, even before I reached six. But Tyndareus made me swear to defend her anyway, to spite my father, I think. He was drunk on palm wine as we stood there. He was boisterous, unafraid when he absolutely should have been. The memory only sticks because of how he smelled, how his hand was soft and sticky with the sweetness of the wine. This was the first time I ever felt shame. 

We arrived in Phthia by noon. The sun hung high in the sky. I do not know how he did it, either my father or Eumeleus, but we were granted audience with Peleus, king of Phthia. I wondered what his palace looked like. Did it look like mine? Did it have all the things I imagined? But my imaginations were belied by a constant tearing feeling in my chest. A voice, knowledgeable, stronger than me, that said You are mine now. You do not belong to that palace. You do not belong to that land. You do not belong to any man or woman. You are mine. 

And it shook me. It sounded like the wind through the reeds and the crackle of corpse-flame, it crooned like a singer, it shook like the sound of the boots on the gravel as the soldiers marched up the palace. It sounded like death and life at the same time. I could not understand it and I did not know where to begin to understand it. No name applied to it, no thought could wrangle it. So as a child, I took it as a friend, but knew not to speak to it. 

We stood in the palace. My eyes fixed upon the ceiling; painted with the stories and wants of god after god, the visions that men had, the wars that men fought at the behest of gods. It was beautiful. And as a child, it terrified me. I looked forward, darting my eyes away from the high ceiling and the massive mural. I looked placidly ahead with my hand in Eumeleus’s. Before we entered, Eumeleus consoled me. 

“Be still, Patroclus. Do you know what your name means?”

I shook my tiny head. 

“It means Honor of the father. When you are here you will honor your father, you understand? Honor him.” 

This was the cruelest thing Eumeleus had ever said to me. To honor my father was to lead a life like him, to fail, to suffer. But I was him. I was bound by his name. I was bound by his history. But I was too young. Too fearful. I had seen war. I had seen death. It terrified me more than anything this world could show me. 

Peleus looked down at me. 

“And you two? I assumed I would be holding audience with Menoitius.” 

Eumeleus bowed. “I apologize, king. The kingdom has fallen. Menoitius is presumed dead. I have brought you… his son. Patroclus. He is young, he could serve you. Now that he no longer has a kingdom, he will need somewhere to live. I cannot take care of him. I have no money, no family. Menoitius did me great service by taking me into his court. But now I am alone in the world without mobility to help Patroclus.” Eumeleus’ sullen face seemed to attempt confidence, but his voice maintained a quake, an unsteady certainty that somehow this would fail. “I am begging you.” His voice cracked. “He has seen much war. Perhaps you could…” 

I noticed a young boy sitting beside Peleus. He looked to be my age, idly moving his hands about over a simple toy, watching the legs of the horse move. Curiously, I watched him. 

“I will take him.” Peleus murmured. “I may have thought that Menoitius was a failed king, but there is no reason to forsake his son. There is no reason to watch him die in the streets. He is still royalty, is he not? Perhaps a cursed line, but… I will have use for him.” 

Eumeleus rejoiced quietly, but bowed his head to Peleus. “Gods bless you. I am grateful for your service.” 

“Do not thank me… what is… your name, servant?” 

“Eumeleus.” 

“You have done well in doing this, Eumeleus. Now be off. I will take the boy.” 

Eumeleus left honorably, with a small smile and a wash of tears in his eyes. It struck me as contradictory: how come he was happy and sad? How was that possible? I did not understand. My youth did not allow it. 

_ “Please don’t hurt me, don’t overcome my spirit, / goddess, with longing…” Sappho _

The boy at Peleus’s side became the subject of my curiosities for all of the following years. I plucked through years watching him from afar. The other children held rumors of him to their breasts, telling me nothing. I watched him play. I watched him take his lessons. I do not recall how I landed in sight of him— perhaps because of the way my lessons landed, the way my days shortened and the tutors ceased teaching me. I wondered why, but did not care much; it merely meant more time to watch the boy, the strange, quick boy with brown skin and a daring face. Perhaps they’d let me talk to him, I thought. Perhaps I’d be free to go back to my lessons and be with the other boys. Or, so I hoped. Sequestered into a single room in the belly of the palace with a few toys to entertain me, I learned quickly the lessons that the dead learn. There is nothing to keep you company but your thoughts. There is nothing kind about loneliness. There is nothing that will allow you the ability to keep your head upon your shoulders except your own willingness to avoid the blade. I grew bored, but sated my boredom with imagined games. I sated my boredom with wonder when the stars lilted into the sky. 

For all my memories, I thought of the fish in the old pond outside of the palace in Phthia, how they moved swiftly yet calmly, disappearing into small holes that no one could place the source of. I thought of them perhaps because I was often thirsty, often hungry, often wondering if I would be allowed out for my next meal. I rarely was. But on one occasion, I was granted a license to leave, taken by the hand of a manservant who looked down at me with a strange mix of fear and pity. I did not know how to interact with him. Frankly, I did not know how to interact with anyone. I knew their accents from the brief time I spent taking lessons, but after that, all of it became disparate and uncertain. I did not entirely know who I was. I was Menotiades. I was Patroclus. I was… none of those things, at least not anymore. I was the room, the carved wood soldiers that I knew by name, the horses I could hear plodding as I moved their stationary legs up and down. But soon enough I would get bored of that. Soon enough I would be brimming into manhood. 

The servant took me into the dining hall but sat me down in the back of the room, alone, rushing up to the front to acquire food for me, telling me 

“Menotiades, stay put.”

I had yet to understand the shame in that, the name they used to refer to me. A mark. A little black smudge upon my wrist like pyre ash. I wondered and wondered why they were treating me like this. But eventually, I saw him. The boy. Sitting up front, but watching me slightly. Like a hawk, I could not tell whether he was curious or out for blood. I locked eyes with him. We were both so young, so foolishly intrigued. The servant brought me my meal. He sat beside me, but noticed my eyes were fixed on the other boy. 

“Stop looking at him.” He instructed coldly. “That is Prince Achilles. You are not to associate with him, your name, your lineage, your condition will stain him. You understand, Menotiades?” The servant looked at me sharply, with hate burnt in his eyes. 

“I understand.” 

  
  


I thought, at first, that there was no one in my room that night. The evidence quickly moved against me; I could not deny the presence of something terrible. It was midnight on my eleventh birthday. I was happy and unhappy at the fact that I was still being held in this room. Though, to some extent I was becoming misanthropic, and frankly did not care much for anything except the thoughts I had to myself and my meals. I wished to ensure my body was not overtired, so during the day I ran about the room. I wished to ensure my mind was at least slightly exercised, so I tried to read the few scrolls they left in the room. I wanted, and wanted, and wanted. But I would never receive it. At least, until that moment. 

I looked over the corner of my cot and there she stood. She did not look human. She looked like a Fury, long sharp wings spread wide over the entire space over me, her eyes dark as if they were cut out of obsidian. Her whole body was a terror, muscles structured her whole frame quite visibly, but they were covered in fresh wounds like she just darted out of battle. She looked down at me with… I think it was pity. I could not tell what the emotion was, but I knew how I felt. I felt an incalculable terror. It was not her form that let me know she was a goddess. Rather, the way the air bled with fear. The wind knew not to blow. The papers knew not to shift as she walked. The ground knew to make no sound. Everything stood in utter silence, in perfect, absolute supplication. It was as if there was no one there. And perhaps there was no one. Perhaps I had lost my mind. 

Then she spoke. 

“I am Strife.” She pressed her large hand onto my forehead. It froze the skin and stank of blood. “I am not your mother, but I will have you know… You are mine.” Then, in an instant, she disappeared. 

A scream bubbled in my throat, but the wind she left struck me so hard against my chest and the cold of her hand was still imprinted upon me, so I had no freedom to move, no freedom to act, I merely stared at the space where her terrible face was. I watched as if she would come back. In that moment, I wanted that. More explanation. More clarity. But I would never get it. Strife was gone. 

The morning of my eleventh birthday, I awoke to a boy sitting beside me. My eyes were still weary, weighed down by sleep, so upon seeing a figure seated beside my cot. I reached out a hand, foolishly. I wondered if it was Strife, or if that was merely a dream, or if all of this was a dream. But I touched someone. A leg, a small but firm muscled leg, then I moved my hand down, a calf, and I heard the owner laugh. 

“What are you doing?” His voice was confident yet measured. He threw his hand over mine and gently plucked it away. I could not tell whether the expression on his face was of disapproval or a bright smile. 

I opened my eyes slowly, rubbing them to ensure I could clearly see the boy before me. Once I could I realized. 

His face was still boyish and round, his skin a gentle brown, the firmness of his features still budding and unrealized. He was smiling. His teeth were slightly visible and his eyes smiled as well. And somehow, all I could do was watch him, just to be certain of him, to know whether or not it was truly Prince Achilles I was looking at. He nudged me slightly. 

“Have you fallen asleep again with your eyes wide open?” 

“N-no.” I half-whined. 

“Why do they keep you here,” he paused as he realized he did not know my name. “What is your name? No one ever tells me these things for fear of you ‘staining’ me or some nonsense.” 

“Meno— Patroclus.” I stammered. “My name is Patroclus.” 

“You do not sound certain, Patroclus.” He said it clear, pronouncing every syllable where others let the word slur in their mouths like an epithet. 

Pa-tro-clus. He said. Patroclus. 

“I think I know my own name.” I snapped back. 

“You are sharp. How long have they had you in here?” He sounded curious, the gentle gaze of his eyes fixating on the shabby chest of clothes I wore, then onto the furnishings, the bare ceiling, the ratty old curtains… it must have shocked him, that a room like this existed in the palace. His palace. 

“I spent three years taking lessons… but they” I pouted a bit. “Wouldn’t let me talk to the other boys. But I’ve been confined for the past three. Coming out for meals and such when they don’t merely send them up to me…” 

Achilles scooted his chair closer to me. “I think that is quite lonely, is it not?” 

I shook my head. “No, I am… the son of a bad man. And as I am his son I do not deserve companionship.” 

He stared at me for a long moment. I wondered if he was the type of boy to put flowers in his hair when the summer months came, if he would play the lyre or sing songs as the days went on, or if he imagined himself to be a king like he was born to be, or if he wanted to be something else. I imagined him and the images were rich and uncertain at the same time. 

“I disagree. My father tells me a man is not a man without companionship.” 

“But I am no man, I am… just a boy.” 

“And you will grow into a man, will you not?” 

I looked down at my hands. Somehow, I presumed they would be larger than they were, that I would know them better. But I think it was the other way around, they knew me, but I did not know them. They knew the curves of my body, the wreckage of my hair, but I did not look at them or consider them. I merely watched them become appendages to a body I couldn’t understand. I was never going to be a man. In fact, I was barely a boy, nor a girl, nor a person for that matter. I was the ground Strife walked on. I was dust and dirt and blood, to be trampled upon, to be crushed under a stronger man’s greaves. I did not expect myself to grow. I did not know why, but I knew it. 

“I… do not know.” I stared at the window for a moment, sitting upright in my cot. 

“How could you not know? It is quite simple. You are a boy now, so clearly you will grow into a man.” 

“If that is granted to me, Prince Achilles.” I sounded somber and shaken. 

“Why… well, I do not believe you. You will be a man unless disease takes you. Are you sickly?” 

I shook my head. 

“Are you foolish?” 

I shook my head. 

“Then you will live.” He paused for a long moment before standing up and cracking his knuckles, then moving his hands onto the base of his back and cracking that as well. “I want to see you again. I will come during the night or early morning. Patroclus, what day is it? Is it Saturday?” 

“It is my…” I felt foolish saying it, and I did not know why he asked. “Why don’t you know?” 

“Well, I tend to lose track. It is your what?” 

“My birthday. And a Saturday.” 

He smiled. “Happy birthday, Patroclus. May you grow into a man.” He walked toward the door, waving his hand over his head. The sun cracked the sky. “I will be seeing you again.” 


	2. Here you will find an apple / grove to welcome you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles and Patroclus spend time with each other. The figs are sweet and questions still linger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew this has been written for a while i've just been Executive Dysfunction on posting it. my b

“Tell me, Patroclus, why do they have you up here, anyway?” He looked at me occasionally as he paced back and forth across the small room at a steady pace. “It doesn’t seem like you’ve done anything wrong.” 

“I… cannot tell you.” 

“Why not?” He seemed offended, like I had struck at his princeliness. 

Resigned, I said; “it is simply how it is.” 

More resigned than I, he answered; “so be it.” 

He slid through the palace like a wily snake many nights, slipping past the palace guards leaving stones or pillows clumped together in his bed to ensure Peleus or one of the servants did not discover his absence. It was an honor that I did not recognize. Or rather, that I refused to recognize. I watched him and pitied him. Did he not know what disaster he was laying for himself? The direction of his life were he to be wrapped up in all of my disasters? My name? My family? I figured at this point that I hallucinated gods, that I was some sort of broken fool, soon to be pulled under by madness. Terror was the only thing I completely understood. It lifted me and left me with the knowledge of my own failures. But now, I know there were hardly any. I was a child. They were my father’s failures. He sat with me often. At the side of my cot, he looked down at me, smiling. And always, I was confused by this; in what circumstance would a prince be at all interested in being a companion to someone like me? As we both grew older, I realized the strangeness in this. He had never been caught, I thought. He had never been seen coming and going, I thought. 

One dawn about a year into our tenure as strange companions, he pressed his hand against my face. 

“You’re warm.” 

“Yes, I am.” Sleep still plagued me. It was early and he slid in through the front door quietly, as to allow me to sleep. I was confused as to why he was touching me. I couldn’t tell if it was out of pity or endearment; if he was trying to understand me or if he was trying to size me up to see how quickly he could crush me. 

“I want you to come to my lessons.” He was not smiling but he was not severe. His eyes gazed gently and his face seemed to wash over me. 

“Your lessons? How would you get me there?” I wondered idly. 

“Well,” I expected him here to display some sense of cunning, some wild streak, but instead he simply looked at me, casting his eyes down for a brief moment then striking them back up. “Patroclus,” he seemed to soften. “I am a prince. I could say that you are my companion, and there will not be dispute. It will simply be something taken as fact.”

I thought he was cocky. I thought he was a fool. But his voice was steady, simple, cut from stone. 

There was a certain ease to what happened next. He slid me out of the room and for the first time in a few days I saw the hallway, the ceiling, the walls, all of which I gawked at without a care in the world. Achilles held my hand tight in his, squeezing it occasionally as if to say please, Patroclus, I need you to pay attention. Our capture was a possibility, but it was unlikely. It was more like the possibility of Achilles needing to explain himself. Achilles was quick, but I learned later that this was barely half of his speed. He was fast, but he was far faster in battle. He merely kept this speed so I had a chance of keeping up. Even in this case, his feet moved quick, almost like little blurs of light. I imagined him fighting. How his footwork must have been impeccable, his steps as filled with fury as Heracles. He must have been far more powerful than I realized. His hand in mine felt warm, impossibly so. I was somewhat afraid I would start to sweat in his palm and embarrass myself, and surely I would have. I was nervous in his presence ever yet. As much as I could, I watched him in the way he turned a corner, pivoting his foot just slightly to push off, the way his eyes surveyed a room long before mine could. I did not want to realize this about him, but he could kill any man. But then, he was merely my friend. He was merely Achilles. Finally, Achilles threw open the door to exit the palace. 

We “escaped” through the back of the palace, into the small outcropping of the grove. The trees were tall, filled with fruit. Figs, apples, a trellis of grapes along the outskirts. It should not have been foreign or surprising to me, and yet, I found every inhale of this space to be close to divinity. He sat under a tree, staring idly up into its branches. He tapped the ground beside him— where he sat, there was a root on one side and a clearing on the other, but where he directed me, there was a single fig dangling from a branch just above— and I sat. He seemed to be hungry; Achilles took the fig from the branch and bit into it. Then without a word, he offered it to me, with a closed-mouth smile. I took a bite as well, the juice filled my mouth and I couldn’t resist the joy. I suppose I should have wondered if anyone would come to find us, if he— no, more realistically— I would be in peril for this choice. It was surely a dangerous thing to bring shame to a prince. Even more dangerous when I am as I am; Menotiades, fool amongst fools, named to honor a father unworthy of honor. 

We sat there and I wondered quietly if I could touch him as he had done to me, hold my hand to his face and feel just how warm he was. He smiled at me and continued to smile. 

“Will you tell me?” He murmured, long after the two of us had finished the fig. 

“I will be truthful with you. I do not know.” 

“Hm. I am not satisfied with that answer.” He looked at me skeptically. “I’d prefer not needing to be told by someone else.” 

“I truly do not know, Prince Achilles.” 

“Even if you do not know, do you at least have some sort of conjecture? Some hollow idea as to why you might be held there?” 

I shook my head. 

“Then so be it. I still want you to be my friend, but of course, it will be difficult with this issue still being in place. I will ask my father soon.” 

Achilles’ soon was not as soon as I would have hoped. It took him months. Throughout it all, he visited me scarcely, leaving me short notes on thin parchment. I wanted to ask; is this what I am worth to you? Parchment so thin it will not survive a few touches? But the following thought was always of course this is what I am worth to you; I am Menotiades, I am the failed son. The last thing anyone wants in their home, the last thing anyone wants to remember. I felt my hands coat with sweat when I went to grab the most recent letter. He wrote smoothly, his characters simple and unabashed. He moved through his sentences with perfect grammar and an almost poetic flare. It made me want to speak with him again. But of course, we couldn’t. We simply were not free to. Or so I thought. 

I was brought from my confinement to the dining hall yet again. It has been the same servant every time. I learned later that this was the servant they did not particularly care for, that this was the servant they were willing to let die. When we arrived in the dining hall, I sat quietly in my spot— which as of late had changed quite often— and watched for Achilles. The servant, however, grabbed me by the wrist. 

“Do not look at him.” He instructed. “You are not worthy of it.” 

My eyes sunk to the ground. I wondered just how long I had until my father’s madness took me; and I wondered, for once not idly, if it would be prudent for me to simply strike at the core of the issue. To simply get rid of the problem at the source. I thought that would bring Peleus joy. I thought that would bring the whole palace joy. For once, to be rid of the scourge that I was. Though I didn’t know why, I knew it was true. I knew it was the structure of things that I was to be cordoned off into that room, that I was to go unseen, that I was to be shuttled from there to the dining hall, that I was not to look at Achilles, that Achilles was far too good for anything I was meant to be or could ever be. I knew this. I knew this. I knew this. 

There was pressure in my head, my ears, my chest, my hands. I couldn’t measure any of my feelings, so instead I ambled in them, fell face first into their force like a mass of stone tumbling down from a sheer cliff. All the way, I pleaded to the water; forgive me. I held my hands together and simply stared at my food. There was nothing initially that told me the extent of my expression, but my eyes were drawn back up by the gasp of my captor next to me. My eyes cast up. What a strange thing to see him here, looking at me, through eyes with a kinder view than I could have imagined, with a more gentle imposition than anything I had known in my whole life. I heard a voice behind me but didn’t heed it. A mistake, she said. 

Achilles sat with me. Though I could ask him why, I could shake him for some certain idea of what he hoped to gain, but I couldn’t think of any of that. Achilles sitting before me shook me to the bone and sent warmth into my stomach. I wondered how long he would stay. He was holding his plate and his utensils and it looked as if he had yet to touch his food. He was smiling at me but with acute knowledge of the servant sitting beside me. Then, in an instant, his face changed to an icy grimace. 

“You are excused.” His voice was not water through an icy river; his voice was the ice. He was winter in that moment. Like he could cut through the earth, perhaps not in an instant, but with enough words, with enough certainty, he would. 

“Prince…” I took the servant’s reply as simple shock, “I will be off. Let me know if you two need anything.” 

Achilles smiled yet again. 

“So,” he moved his food around and skewered a piece of meat. “I’ve missed you.” 

Pressure built around the room. It became a pyre for a brief moment before a sweep of wind entered through the window. It disrupted everything and left me shaking in my cot. I presumed it was another one of my maddened hallucinations. She was there again. Now, she looked entirely different. She looked like my mother— all except for the deepness of her eyes, the dark in them, and the rings of dried blood surrounding her eyelids like makeup. But she had told me before that she was not my mother, so why this form? Why this choice? I did not dare interrogate Strife, for fear of her crushing me in her bare palm. I watched her stand in the far corner of the room, shaking nothing, moving nothing. The room bowed to her as it did before. Everything knows when a god is present, Patroclus. I recalled my father saying once. Everything knows. 

“Patroclus.” She boomed. “I have a purpose for you.” She walked towards me with a single cupped hand. She pressed it against my face. I felt guilt. I felt a guilt that rocked my thoughts; disrupted the breath I could take and staggered me. I inhaled raggedly. 

“What is it, goddess?” 

“You will bring Achilles to the war coming. I do not care whether you die, whether he dies…” She looked down at me and smiled. She had cockroaches for teeth. “You are nearly thirteen. Soon Achilles will travel to Chiron. Soon Achilles will become a warrior. You will accompany him…” she laughed. “You humans are so strange; you think death comes in one way… But I am musing. You will deliver him to me. I know this, because I have chosen you for this purpose. I know this, because you simply have no choice in the matter.” A single cockroach slid out of her mouth and fell onto me. I could not smell it, but I could feel it. It cut through my skin. The little slits it left began to gush with small trails of blood that followed the cockroach as it moved down my shoulder onto my chest. I was in pain, somehow, just by being in the presence of her. Soon I felt it burrow. She laughed. 

“You are mine, and I need you to remember that.” She leaned close as the roach cut deep into my stomach. “Menotiades; I knew your father. And this is because of him. And because you are of him, I have made you mine. It is simple.” Her throat croaked. “I will be going now. Prince Achilles will be seeing you.” 

Achilles did indeed arrive. 

He smelled sweet, gentle, like pomegranates and sandalwood, his breath swelled with the scent of figs. Does he have a sweet tooth? I questioned. He smiled at me with his slightly stained teeth. 

“Would you like to go, Patroclus?” He said it in a hushed tone. “Would you like to go to the grove?” 

I smiled at him, and before I could say a word, he extended his hand. I was foolhardy, hopeful. I took it. 

The two of us ran for some time, at least, until Peleus’ servant found us. I asked Achilles later why he simply did not outwit or out speed the servant, but… “Where would I go?” He told me. “What land could I run to where someone like me could truly be free from my father? From my duty as prince? You understand that I do not have a choice in any of this, it is simply who I am… My lot in life.” 

His hand in mine felt daring, like a possibility I had never considered. I did not like any of the other boys and rarely saw them, and now… we would be old enough to be considered more than boys— but not yet men. Princes were anomalies to me, though I had been one once; I had no idea what Achilles’ situation would become, if he would suddenly be inaccessible to me, if he would be alone— no. If I would be alone. Achilles was fine without me, then, at least. And even now he tells me these things and I am not sure that I believe him. 

The servant took the two of us to Peleus. He seemed to know implicitly that he didn’t even stand a chance against a twelve year old Achilles, but why— I did not know. I couldn’t parse what made him so afraid. And yet, he was. He did not hold Achilles yet he held me by the wrist with a tight and sweaty hand. It was a clear tell: Achilles had more freedom than me. Achilles was more alive and more worthwhile than me. Venom sprung in my throat over that, but deep down, I wanted to be with him, I wanted to sit with him under a fig tree. I wanted it all. 

He sat me before Peleus, but Achilles— Achilles was allowed to stand, to look his father in the eyes. The servant forced my head down with a firm hand and as I struggled he held me down with force. 

“Enough.” Peleus commanded.

I could not discern whether his “enough” was directed at me or the servant, but the servant removed his hands from me, and my eyes gazed upon the king. It felt as if the king did not want to look back at me— as if I had been cursed or made irredeemable. Perhaps I had been. Perhaps I always would be. 

Peleus looked at me. “The two of you…” he seemed to know what he wanted to say but lost it. “You can see him. I do not care; you are defended, and all we know of Patroclus’ position is that it may be true. I do not pride myself on listening to mad men’s conjecture, know that much. I will allow you two to spend time together. What is it you want to do with him, Achilles?” 

“I want him to be my companion.” His eyes drifted down, pensively examining his legs. “Because no one else seems to be willing. They are either too afraid or too awestruck. He is the only one with the will to tell me anything different than what I want to hear.” 

“And this is… a good thing?” 

Achilles smiled. “Of course it is, father. What is a man without his companion to challenge him?” 

Peleus smiled. “Good, my son.” He shifted in his seat, then rose on his cane, gently lifting his hand to approach me. “I needn’t ask you if you  _ want  _ to be Achilles’ companion. It is easy, why wouldn’t you? It is an in to power, a name you can beseech as someone you have spoken to, shared food with. But of course, it is nothing if you are Menotiades. If you are marked.” 

My heart sank into my sandals. The measure of my terror at that statement was impossible to wrangle. My eyelids fluttered a bit attempting to hold back the amount of tears the brimmed at the back of my eyes. But something in me-- no, someone in me-- told me to speak back, with the heat of my voice, with the blood in it. 

“I can still bring honor to you and to Achilles.” 

Peleus shook his head in sudden shock. “You speak back to me, boy?” 

Strangely, his voice didn’t reek of anger. No, he sounded certain, knowledgeable. Like he knew already the content of his heart; he was challenging me, but he was not offended. I did not know how I could tell, but I knew. Ease lifted my voice from my throat. 

“Yes.” I inhaled. “I do. I can bring honor to you and Achilles. You have my word.” 

He smiled at me. “Then bring me pride.” 


	3. "A fleet of the most beautiful of / sights the dark earth offers"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patroclus climbs Mt. Pelion and meets with Achilles.

He looked at me funny. We sat in the apple grove without a fig to our names, waiting for the other to say something, waiting for something to bubble up or be released, but there was nothing… and nothing… and nothing. He kept his eyes on me but I couldn’t help but dart mine away when they landed on him. He was swiftly growing into a man— whereas, I was demure, perhaps a bit meagre and slowly attempting to gain muscle so I could be something other than a boy to be crushed. I knew, as much as one could know, that I needed to bring Peleus honor. That I needed to bring Achilles honor. I wondered what he thought of me, but feared that thought more than any death I could die. But I knew, to some extent, that he felt indifference, that he looked at me the same as all the other boys. But often, something would extol that strange, desperate fact;  _ he chose to speak with you, though. He chose to risk things for you.  _ To which I have found no answer but;  **why.**

His eyes were remarkably steady. It forced the realization that I did not know Achilles well, that I did not know the way he felt about  _ anything  _ really. It was not until that night that I learned what the room he slept in looked like. 

He showed me with muted pride, guiding me about with his hand wrapped around mine. There were his old childhood toys, his cracked training swords (cracked at the blade, horizontally like it had it something so hard that it broke before its target could), his assorted clothes, gifts from his mother, his lyre. He sat on the edge of his bed and began to play. Wonder-- I was trying to put a name to that emotion and it was wonder. It pulled at my throat and not my heart strings, filling it with something heavy that I could not revoke once it began to rise. I wanted to cry at his playing. The ability of his fingers to belt out chords, then whisper them with the same precision and intensity. He breathed that music. Often, his lips would open a bit. I imagined him singing. His voice must have been as lovely as his speaking voice. He must have been gifted. Finally, he lowered his lyre. Immediately I felt hollow. Something warm left me like life from a mouth agape after the eyes go dark. He didn’t speak. He watched me. He smiled. 

We still sat in the grove and finally he spoke.    
  
“It is pertinent to tell you the extent of my parentage.” He sighed a bit, weighted by the words he spoke. 

I thought of what Strife had told me;  _ Chiron.  _ He was the centaur who instructed heroes, men of divinity. I had not thought of it since Strife spoke it to me. I did not want to think about it because her words burnt me intensely. They cut at my skin and made it near impossible for me to think of anything else. I inhaled and held my breath. He noticed, but made no mention of it. 

“My mother is the goddess Thetis.” He said. He said it with unease, as if she were listening. 

“Oh?” I looked at him with a bit of confusion in my eyes.  _ Is this why Strife wished for me to take him to the war? Is this why he is going to Chiron?  _

He nodded. “Yes. She… comes to visit me sometimes. She smells of the ocean. When I see her next, you should be able to smell her on me.” 

“O-oh.” I mumbled. 

“Are you sure you are alright? You have said nothing but ‘oh’ since I told you this.” 

“No. I am fine. It is just a large piece of information.” 

“This is why no one sees me fight, Patroclus. I am fated to be the greatest warrior  Greece has ever seen.  _ Aristos Achaion.”  _ His voice trailed off when he finished saying it, a cracking knowledge that he didn’t  _ want  _ this. But I didn’t dare ask. It was his duty. 

“I quite like you.” I murmured. “I would not like to see you become blood soaked and wrathful.” 

“I…” He looked at his hands. “Can we speak of something else, Patroclus?” 

  
  


When it was time for Achilles to move to Chiron, I was not allowed to follow. Of course. There was no amount of pleading he could do that would allow me entry into Chiron’s home. I simply was not powerful enough, not necessary enough. I was sure, even, that Chiron would smell the blood on me. He would know about Strife. He would know who I was. Perhaps I could bring honor upon Peleus and Achilles by being a warrior under Chiron’s tutelage. But now, many memories from my early youth quickly began rushing back the more brushes with Strife I had. She would press her cold, sharp-nailed finger to my forehead and breathe a word. In an instant, there would be a memory. Men coming in from the east, cutting down men then raping their wives. Boys running from their ball games only to be grabbed by their waists and hoisted over burly men’s shoulders to be taken as slaves. Then there were the spurts of violence. Men skewering each other with spears, leaving entrails out all over the ground. Men raising blades to throats and cutting each other down. Men destroying each other. So much violence that after each of these moments, my whole body would retch. I would be left squirming and pleading for something to help me. But Strife would look down. She would nod. She would say “this is his fate.” And leave me. I could not tell if those were memories or premonitions. They could be either, she told me once. She smiled. “You are his fate.” 

He left in the early morning. I did not search for him. He warned me. I knew. So, I did what I was bound to do, what he  _ knew  _ I was bound to do. I took a mule from the stables and I began to climb the mountain to meet him there. How strange it felt, noticing the beauty of things that once terrified me to the point of illogic. I remember, barely, walking with Eumeleus from the city down to Phthia and seeing the peak of Mount Pelion. The mandate was placed before me simply and without debate. 

She arrived in deep red armor with a cherry glow, eyes stolid and unmoving as she shifted her spear from hand to hand. Terror filled me, but no one was there to feel it. I slept in Achilles’ room, but he was gone. Her presence punched the air out of me. I gathered my breath and I looked at her plainly. 

“Hello, goddess.” My voice quivered. 

“Menotiades.” Her voice cracked the air in my ears, popping them. “You are to go after him. To Mount Pelion. It is a simple task. I have left you a mule in the stable outside of the palace. You run. You hasten with all things you have left over, you break the world open to make sure he gets where he must be.” She beat her fist against her armor. Her voice boomed: “do you understand?” 

I crumbled. “Yes, goddess.” 

I was trying to be simple, to be clear, to know what to do in her presence. But I always failed. If there were birds in my chest, she turned them from doves to hawks. My heart was cold, if not burning in pyre flame. Either the ice of dying or the flame of it; I found no legitimate escape. It hurt me. It burnt deep into my skin. 

The stable outside of the palace was open to me. No one guarded it and the single housing where the mule stood was swung open. I took it by its reins, already placed on its body. But as I pulled it forward, I quickly realized it was carrying things. Many things. My mother’s lyre, which I only recognized from a recurrent dream of her playing as the soldiers trod in, a small dagger with a golden hilt, enough food to last me the journey… It was provision for a day, just about as long as it would take to arrive at Chiron’s home. 

It felt like running. Every step of that journey felt like I was trying to escape someone. I knew, instinctively, that I was trying to escape Strife, but knew deeper that there was no way I could avoid her. That she was a fate of mine— captured in my bones until the day I bade death a soft welcome. It was difficult to breathe through some of those steps. I tried to stay steady yet anxiety racked my chest, pounding against it violently as I tried to measure each motion. I thought of him. And I thought of him. He was a worry of love— I could hold faith to him, to who he was and could be. He was a man, yes, but he was somewhat divine (his mothering be damned, he was divine for  _ who  _ he was, not  _ what  _ he was). I wanted to believe in him, so I did. My fears only berated me enough to harm my flesh; they had no bearing on my soul. Fear be damned. Father be damned. Menotiades be damned. 

What feeling I had left I simply collected and recollected in my chest— let it appear and disappear, then vanish into itself. I took the mule as far as I could, but soon, the mountains began to beck and call, breaking from their improbable heights into something conquerable, something small enough to walk up. There were paths— stones to be climbed— foothills and cliffs. I understood it, somehow. As if there was something in me aware of the way they let up and let on— the way they eased in and out of being. Soon, I would meet Chiron. I was sure of it. But perhaps it wasn’t keen to announce myself; perhaps it would be best were I to move to sneak in, to speak to Achilles, to have him introduce me. I didn’t know. But I could feel something watching me— perhaps a hawk? A crow? No, no, a raven— overhead, it swung around the breadth of the wind, its wings fully spread, recklessly circling while keeping pace. I was sure of it; this was Strife. 

I kept my head down. I kept my eyes focused on the steps ahead of me. 

By the end of the day, I had reached the peak of Mount Pelion. The raven had disappeared, bleating cries as it fell back as I approached the peak. From here, the wild sunset hung over the sky, barely distant— as if Apollo’s chariot was within reach of me. Perhaps this is what it felt like to be in the good favor of the gods. To be aware of their might; to be sure that they were present in your life. Perhaps— but this didn’t sound  _ good  _ to me. This sounded more like a curse than anything; more like something that would inevitably damn me— as it had. As it would. As it should. 

I did not see Chiron. Chiron saw me. 

He slammed his staff against the ground and the earth beckoned his strength, the ground shook forcefully as he stood at the entrance to a gray opening in the mountain side— from here I could only see the flickers of a fire, the quiet sound of a lyre being plucked— he looked about, his eyes keen and sure. His body terrified me. He was almost majestic in his defiance of my understanding. As if he was created before anything I could have known— and perhaps he was. He served men greater and far older than me. Men half divine and chosen. I was nothing to him. He saw me, and I darted behind a large stone in fear. The tremor he sent through the ground terrified me— my body now trembling in my sandals. 

He trotted over to me. I didn’t presume I could hide from him; I knew my nakedness in the wake of someone like him. I knew who I was. I was no one. He looked down at me, stroking his beard with one hand while slowly extending his staff to point directly at me. 

“And who would this be?” 

I snapped to attention. “Patroclus Menotiades.”

“Oh. You are  _ his  _ son.” 

I almost sulked, but kept my head high in reply to his comment. I couldn’t allow myself to sink into the ground. I had to bring pride to Achilles. I had to bring pride to Peleus. It was my duty— I must do what my father could not. I must do what those before me failed to. And yet, this little insistence felt hollow— I can’t be sure what the point of it was when Strife holds onto me, when she is the one directing nearly everything in my life. She was truly the one in control. I was not in my own hands. Had the Moirai truly damned me such? I didn’t want to believe it. I hung my head. 

“Yes, I am Menoitius’s son. And—” 

Chiron called for Achilles. 

“Achilles!” He shouted, his voice booming— his voice was so heavy in his chest that it shook me also. I felt pitiful and weak in his presence. “Did you bring this one here?” 

Achilles peeked his head out of the cave, holding his lyre. 

“No, I did not, teacher.” There was something brimming in him, but I couldn’t tell what. His face was still serious.

“Hmph.” He paused. “You are not meant to be here, Patroclus.” 

_ He called me Patroclus?  _

But— Achilles, upon seeing me, seemingly broke from his previously serious face, his curiosity waning and his expression warming, he smiled wide. “Teacher,” he said, smiling. “I—” 

“What..?” He looked down at me again. “Explain yourself.” 

“I want to accompany my friend.” 

“Why is that?” 

“Because I haven’t anyone else.” 

“I see,” he pushed a small laugh. “Desperation.” 

Achilles stepped closer to me, but Chiron lowered his staff to block him. 

“I’d like him to stay.” He commanded. 

“That is against your mother’s wants, Master Achilles.” 

Achilles frowned. “Please, we must make some exceptions. She is rather unreasonable.” 

“Hmph.” He looked away from Achilles. “Would you like to learn, Patroclus?” 

I nodded. 

“Then you shall.” 

  
  
  


The morning came quick with a stunning lack of rest. I wondered if Strife would visit— if she was willing to intrude upon a space as hallowed as this, the ground protected by Olympians. I listened for her. My ears stayed perked through the moments I could manage to keep my eyes open. Achilles reached out to me from his cot; I slept quietly on the ground, not wanting to intrude his sleeping space. His eyes lazily hanging half-open surveyed me and his hand followed, sweeping across my face, caressing my cheek with caution, as if he was afraid I would disappear or change at the drop of a coin. Caution seemed to be the truth of his position— he seemed cautious in beginning to smile when we woke— his eyes swept over me, and as if he was strangling the joy, he barely smiled until his hands swiftly let go, his face lightening from its previous severity. He let out a soft laugh. My chest nearly cracked open. His hand upon me nearly stung from the gentleness of his hands. 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” He beamed. 

“I’m glad— ...as well.” I forced out. 

He hopped to his feet from his seated position, scooping up my hand into his, raising me from my criss-crossed position on the floor of the cave. Chiron was standing at the head of the cave, staring down at us as Achilles quickly ran me to him. 

“Let’s start.” Chiron bellowed. 

The days were beautiful from the peak of Pelion. The sky was stubborn, refusing to admit defeat— the sunrises washed the sky in immaculate color, swaths of reds, oranges, the early washes of purple and pink— there was nothing not to be seen, and yet, I kept my eyes on Achilles as he watched. I admired his awe. He kept his eyes wide, even though surely he had seen it before. His face while observing this was more beautiful than anything I could’ve seen in the sky— besides— I may not have Achilles forever; the sky will be there as long as I live. I wondered then if I understood Achilles. I knew I didn’t, but I didn’t know the extent at which I did not know him. I did not know the extent at which my shame would overwhelm my knowledge of him. He may have been someone I had no right to know. Or maybe he was just the last thing I would know before dying. 

Chiron asked me if I wished to learn to fight. He stared down at me, with a half-pity, keeping his eyes firmly on mine. By instinct, my eyes darted away, his figure terrified me and I was repulsed by his pity, by the way he seemed aware of my curse. I felt weak in his presence, as if he knew about Strife, and he did know of my lineage— as if he knew what she had told me. He must’ve known of fate. He must’ve known of what laid ahead of the two of us. He must’ve spoken with the Moirai— he must’ve… he must’ve… 

He cleared his throat. “Need I repeat myself? Do you wish to become a warrior?” 

I shook my head. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

I stammered before coming to a full word. “I am terrified of—” I paused, thinking twice before saying death, “I am terrified of the consequences of war.” 

“So, death?” 

“Y-yes.” 

“Hmph.” 

“But also—” I murmured. “I remember what those men did to my father’s city. I remember what they did to everyone I loved and cared about… I don’t want to be a purveyor of such cold devices— I want to be neutral.” I knew, at some level, that I would not be able to avoid the cold devices I spoke of. Strife had ensured it. She made it so I was unable to avoid dragging Achilles to war. There was no way around this fact. 

He laughed. “There is no neutrality in times of war.” He leaned down a bit, lifting my chin as my head darted down. “You will learn the arts of medicine then,” he smiled, “I much prefer them, anyways.” 

While Achilles trained, I began to learn about the arts of medicine. He showed me how to stitch a wound on the deep red wounds of the stranded deer pulled from the gorge down from our tall peak. He showed me how to set a bone, how to create a salve— what beauty, that we worked to keep my hands clean while wiping away such death. 

It was in these days that my observations of Achilles came to a tee. He would come back from his training glimmering with sweat— we were still young, but we began taking after the wants of manhood, our bodies beginning to fall into awkward, barely-muscular affectations, the bones no longer jutting out from our ribs, little covers of muscle beginning to bloom. He learned the ways of warriors. I despised it. I thought, perhaps, there was a way we could avoid making him into a warrior so that Strife would be wrong, so that I wouldn’t be forced into the fate she had set out for me. What hope I had was moot if she was free to do as she wanted. But I was no more than the roach she burrowed into my skin. I was nothing to her. I felt my throat close thinking of it as Achilles wiped his face with a piece of cloth. Fate hangs one way, hope hangs another. 

He asked me with his voice lilting in that small musical way it does if I wanted to go “harass the fish” he said. I laughed at his phrasing. 

  
“Of course.” I laughed. 

We stripped down and writhed around in the water— his reflexes were so much faster than mine. I stood downstream from him. There was no chance I’d catch a fish because any fish that passed through him was caught unless, of course, he left it for me to attempt to catch— which I would, only to have it slip from my hands and fall out into the water again. I laughed because I was happy to be with him. I laughed because this was the best I had felt in some time. 

Eventually, we began to tire and the two of us moved back to the peak. We sat in the cave, both of us still damp with river water, Achilles having brought back a number of fish and begun cutting into them to cook. I laughed at how calm this was. Only the ripping of the fish sounded, the wind slowly hissing in from the outside— and as we sat, I began to think of my lyre. I lifted it and began to play. My lack of skill in playing did not stop me— I wanted to make Achilles happy. I wanted to be like Achilles. As if I could be someone. 

It slowly dawned on me that I was undeserving. I realized that all of this was damned, that I should run, that I shouldn’t have made my way into his life. There was no way for me to be in this situation without ruining it. I was ruin. I was shame. I was Menoitiades— the son of a terrible man, bound to bring terrible fate. 

When Achilles asks me “why did you stop playing?” I don’t have an answer. 


End file.
